


Pharmacoepia

by quercus



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-02-01
Updated: 1999-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:05:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/quercus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skinner falls ill; Mulder catches him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pharmacoepia

_Echinacea: Used to stimulate natural resistance by helping to strengthen the immune system. Recognized for use during the cold weather season._

Sneezes don't really sound like "achoo," Skinner reflects, blowing his nose vigorously after an explosive one. At least mine don't. They don't sound like any word I know. They sound like I'm blowing my head off.

He knows he's catching a cold. His throat is scratchy; his mouth tastes metallic; he's sneezing; his eyes are watering; his head aches. Besides, Kimberly's just returned from being out with a cold and every other person he stands next to in an elevator, restroom, or line for coffee has one. It's his turn.

Turning to toss the used kleenex, he catches a glimpse of himself reflected in Bill Clinton's dark suit in the obligatory photo next to his desk. Shit. His nose is already red. He's going to look like Rudolph.

What time is it? He gathers his notes together; there's a budget meeting in twenty minutes and he has a couple department heads to ream out. For a moment, he actually misses Mulder's presence in his division. Now *he* was creative with budgets. Skinner especially enjoyed reading the travel claims that he and Scully submitted, although of course he could never let on at the time. Now they're annoying the hell out of Kersh, or so Skinner hopes. He's never trusted that Kersh fellow.

The budget meeting is even more boring than he'd anticipated. He really does miss Mulder's presence. He could be sulky, but he could also be charming. And Skinner often had the feeling that Mulder believed he and Skinner were in together on some cosmic joke that none of the other department heads knew about. Not that Skinner knew anything about it either, but the sensation of belonging was pleasant.

It's Skinner's unhappy duty to let his department heads know that The Powers That Be have decided to withhold some of his division's moneys in order to fund a few pet projects, while additional mandates have come down, unfunded as usual. It's the department heads' responsibility, with Skinner's encouragement, to locate the necessary resources to fund these mandates. A challenge.

A long morning pouring over revenue and expenditures. Travel money, of course, is cut first and deepest. Someone suggests finding another rental car agency. Skinner can't believe anyone rents cars more cheaply than Lariat, any cheaper and they'll be renting bicycles, but he doesn't say that; instead, he asks the proposer to follow up on the suggestion. Reward the show of initiative.

He's been told that's good managerial technique.

* * *

_Ginger root: A soothing and warming herb for the stomach, used to maintain a calm stomach._

By the weekly Thursday morning breakfast meeting, Skinner's cold has blossomed to the point that he can barely breathe. He's taken an entire pharmacy of over-the-counter remedies, but wasn't able to sleep the night before. Nonetheless, he has dragged his sorry ass into the meeting. He's determined to spread his virus as widely as possible, and makes a point to shake Kersh's hand.

Hey, buddy. Great to see you.

More budget shit. Jesus, doesn't the FBI have any law enforcement responsibilities these days? He drifts. Budgetary conversations differ depending on the level at which they take place. With his department heads, it's practical -- move money from this account to that. At this level, it's almost philosophical. Money's never money; it's power and influence. Financial Zen. The Tao of Dollars. No wonder he can't focus.

His tastebuds are numb; all the food displayed on the buffet looks like plastic and tastes like cardboard. He drinks glass after glass of orange juice and eats half a grapefruit.

The Deputy Director makes a point to ask Skinner about his cold and Skinner is surprised and embarrassed to find himself energized by discussing it. Abruptly he stops, and thanks the DD. "Wash your hands," he warns, suddenly regretting his impulse to come in today. All those cold remedies and lack of sleep have impaired his judgment. He leaves the meeting at his first opportunity.

* * *

_Ginkgo Biloba Leaf Extract: helps increase peripheral circulation of the blood, thereby enhancing blood flow to the brain._

By Friday, Skinner is starting to wonder whether he has a cold or the flu. The bones of his thighs have made themselves known to him to a greater extent than ever before. The muscles in his butt ache. And he feels profoundly chilled, physically and emotionally chilled. He's willing to bet that he's running a fever.

He gets himself to work more out of habit than anything else. Kimberly fusses over him, but he shoos her out of the office after she brings him coffee and orange juice and two Advil Cold and Flu tablets. She returns briefly with a box of kleenex, but leaves immediately at the look on his face.

He has a report to write, analyzing competing proposals to restructure one of his divisions into two. It's in many ways a simple cost-benefit analysis, but he's finding it distressingly difficult to think his way through it. He tries to draft anything, just write down his ideas without concern for how they'll look, but even that's too difficult.

Skinner had once read a book on writing, Anne Lamott's _Bird by Bird_. She'd called one of her techniques "writing shitty drafts," but warned that she always worried she'd be struck by a car immediately after writing a shitty draft and that all her friends would be persuaded she had committed suicide because the draft had revealed to her she'd lost her ability to reason or write.

He shreds his draft for the same reason.

He finishes the orange juice, but the coffee tastes bitter to him. Finally, he puts his head down on his desk and shuts his eyes.

* * *

_Gotu Kola Herb: a favorite among executives, college students, and others involved in strenuous intellectual activities._

Skinner is wakened by cool fingers stroking the back of his neck and someone calling his name. When he lifts his head, a hand presses to his forehead and he slumps into its comfort. When he finally opens his eyes, he discovers the hand belongs to Fox Mulder. For a moment he fantasizes about sucking one of those long, elegant fingers into his mouth, as if it were a thermometer, or a child's lollipop. But sanity returns. He blinks slowly and frowns.

"Agent Mulder. What are you doing here?"

"I saw him in the hallway and asked him to come in," Kimberly answers. "I thought you were unconscious."

"I'm fine." Mulder snorts in disbelief. "I have a cold, Agent Mulder, and I put my head down to rest."

Someone knocks on his office door and he looks up to find Scully peering in. "I'm *fine*, Agent Scully. There's no need for your presence."

"Well, now that I'm here, sir, at least let me take your temperature." She pulls an instrument out of what he thought was her briefcase and inserts it gently into his right ear. So much for sucking Mulder's fingers. This thought shocks him and he jerks away, scratching his ear on the device. "Hold his head, Mulder," Scully says over him, and he feels Mulder's hands return to his neck and forehead. He closes his eyes, dizzy.

"One hundred and one," Scully announces. "You need to be home in bed."

"I'm *fine*," he insists again, but Kimberly is holding his raincoat for him while Mulder and Scully help him stand. He feels as recalcitrant as a child but obediently shrugs into the coat. He's too tired to fight all three of them.

"I'll take you home, sir," Mulder tells him, and he nods, but that's a mistake. His head is throbbing and he frowns again. Behind him, Scully is giving instructions to Mulder.

"Buy lots of juice and some soup -- chicken is best. Gatorade. Here's some ibuprofen; he needs two every four hours. And make sure he stays in bed."

Skinner listens to this in some bemusement; is Mulder going to be his nursemaid? What's going on? But Kimberly hands him his briefcase while Mulder and Scully flank him and begin walking him out the door. It's too hard to think clearly; maybe after a short nap.

* * *

_Milk Thistle Seed Extract: helps maintain healthy liver function through its antioxidant properties. Frequently used by people concerned with cigarette smoke, alcohol, and other environmental toxins._

Skinner wakes from a nightmare. He feels hot and sweaty and cold all at once. His head hurts, his stomach hurts, his back hurts -- and he realizes that he's going to vomit. He rolls out of bed and onto the floor, dizzy. He isn't going to make the bathroom, oh god, and then a green plastic basic appears and he retches into it before losing the contents of his stomach. He's weeping, his nose is running; finally he can spit up only bile and saliva.

A hand appears in his vision, holding a glass of water. It's Mulder, who helps him sit up. Taking careful sips, he rinses his mouth, spitting into the basin. "Back to bed, there, buddy." He responds with a grunt and, with Mulder's assistance, climbs into bed and falls back onto the pillows Mulder has piled behind him.

"I had a nightmare," he finds himself saying.

"Yeah? What was it about?" Mulder asks as he wipes Skinner's face with a damp cloth.

"Cancerman. He was in my office again. I couldn't breathe, the smoke from his Morleys was so thick. He said -- I can't remember what he said. But he scared me. He scares me."

"Yeah, me too. But it's okay. You're okay. Go back to sleep, though, or we'll both have to be scared of Scully." That makes him laugh, and he falls asleep thinking of Scully and her thermometer gun.

He awakens later and discovers Mulder is gently shaking him, almost rocking him. "It's okay," Mulder repeats in his soft tenor, "it's okay."

"Mmmmph?"

"You had another nightmare. You were calling out in your sleep."

Oh god. So embarrassing. And why is Mulder in my apartment, in my bedroom? He can't remember how this arrangement came to be. And now here is a real thermometer, the kind his mom used, and Mulder appears to want to put it in his mouth.

"Under your tongue, Walter." He sighs but opens his mouth and accepts the slender glass rod, slipping it under his tongue. His fever must be stunningly high; he's having erotic fantasies about Mulder, who is now solicitously smoothing the sheets around his shoulders and draping a cool washcloth on his forehead. If only his ministrations didn't feel so *good*, so comforting. So caring.

He wakes hours later, although it must be only three minutes because it's Mulder removing the thermometer that's woken him. "Still over a hundred, but not quite what it was this afternoon. While you're awake, you need to drink something. I bought some pineapple juice; will you drink a glass of it?"

He nods gingerly, fearful of his headache, and accepts Mulder's help with the cumbersome glass. The juice tastes amazingly good, like nothing he's ever tasted before. Mulder really is a fucking genius to have given him pineapple juice. He must tell him sometime.

* * *

_Valerian Root: popular for centuries with people seeking to enhance their night time rest._

When he wakes next, he can tell that his fever is down. His head doesn't hurt, although he's still congested and breathing through his mouth. He feels strong enough to sit up and rummage through his night table's clutter to find Vick's for his poor raw nose and some salve for his dry lips. He hears a deep sigh and looks up to find Mulder asleep in an armchair in his bedroom.

This is truly a surprising turn of events in Skinner's experience. He doesn't believe he's ever before awakened to find one of his agents -- former agents -- asleep in his bedroom.

Mulder shifts restlessly in the chair, an oversized wingback Skinner purchased shortly after Sharon left him. It's the most comfortable chair he's ever owned, a handsome midnight blue, almost black, with a matching ottoman upon which Mulder has propped his stockinged feet. He looks very good in that chair, head dropped against one of the wings. Sleep has removed a decade of worry from his face, smoothed the lines that have begun to etch themselves around his eyes and mouth.

As he soothes the salve onto his own lips, Skinner, for the first time in all the years he's known Mulder, permits himself to study that mouth. A rich, rather sulky lower lip and a bird's wing upper lip. A mouth from the Italian renaissance; he's convinced Botticelli painted one in the Sistine Chapel. Slicking the ointment on his lips, they feel to him rather thin, he thinks, not lush and --

And what, Walter? he asks himself. His fever must have skyrocketed for him to be spending minutes mooning over a subordinate's lips. Jesus. I thought Mulder was supposed to be taking care of me, not sleeping, and clearly I need a massive dose of ibuprofen. Clearly I need his attention.

"Mulder." No response. "Fox." A little louder, and he stirs in the armchair.

"Yeah. Yeah, hey, you're awake." Skinner resists the desire to roll his eyes. "Oh, man, look at the time. You're way overdue your drugs." Skinner realizes it's late; the light is coming from the hallway and a streetlamp outside his bedroom window. I'm getting better, he thinks with some dismay.

He obediently swallows the pills Mulder hands him, washing them down with more pineapple juice. Their hands brush as Mulder takes the glass from him, and Skinner has to close his eyes. His heart rate jumps from the slight contact and he feels almost dizzy. He feels yet again Mulder's fingers stroking his forehead and leans into their touch. The bed dips when Mulder sits next to him, and then his fingers gently trace down Skinner's cheek and jaw. He sighs, almost moans, with pleasure at the sensation. The fingers hesitantly touch his lips and this time he doesn't resist the urge but opens his mouth and, very gently, bites them, then licks them, and finally sucks on them.

He feels Mulder inch closer to him and, almost fearfully, opens his eyes and releases the fingers. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"No, no," Mulder whispers back and inclines even closer to him. Their faces are so close that Skinner can't focus his eyes and lets them shut again. He tilts his head a single degree forward and feels Mulder's mouth under his own. For several heartbeats they remain simply touching, breathing, and then Mulder leans a fraction closer and opens his mouth. Skinner takes Mulder's tongue into his mouth and sucks it, too. He feels unmoored from convention, from expectation; he feels light-headed, from fever or lust, he doesn't know. All he knows is that he wants to go back to sleep and he wants Mulder to be there when he wakes up.

"Don't go," he whispers when they finally release each other's mouths. "Please, Fox, don't leave me."

"Never. Never." Mulder crawls over him onto the other side of the bed and under the covers. Then there's a warm body pulling him toward the security it offers, and he rolls toward it. "I'll never leave you until you tell me to go." Eyes still closed, Skinner kisses Mulder's shoulder.

"Go to sleep, Walter." And Skinner falls into a dream of affection and concern and pleasure and feelings he cannot name because he hasn't experienced them for so long. He falls.

* * *

_Saw Palmetto Berry Extract: helps maintain proper urinary function in mature men; recommended for prostatitis._

Skinner wakes in the languor of late morning. It's Saturday; normally he would have gone into work for a few hours, and brought more home, but fuck it. He's put in enough 60 hour work weeks. He closes his eyes against the sunlight seeping past the curtains and rolls away from the window, into the warmth of another body.

Mulder. Fully dressed but soundly sleeping. Skinner strokes his beautiful face, shaking his head in disbelief that such a thing should happen to him. A former Marine. An FBI agent. An all-round tough guy. But he feels flooded with affection for the man lying so peacefully next to him. I don't remember the last time I felt this way, he thinks, a smile growing on his face.

Whatever ailment had him in its grip has fled, no doubt due to Mulder's tender mercies. His nose is still congested, but he doesn't ache anywhere. Well, almost anywhere; he needs to pee like a son of a bitch. He tries to slip out of bed without waking his sleeping partner, but Mulder's eyes open and he smiles. A shy smile, not sure what to expect. Skinner stops moving away and rolls back, cupping Mulder's face in his hand. "Hey."

"Hey." They stare at each other until Skinner laughs.

"I can't believe this. I can't believe this."

"Shut up." Mulder kisses his hand and then pulls him closer and kisses the end of his nose and then his mouth.

"No, no, morning mouth, not to mention my cold," he protests, but Mulder's stronger than he looks and holds him tightly and begins kissing him thoroughly. He really doesn't want to fight this and kisses him right back. What is it about opening one's mouth to another? He's melting into acceptance; he's suddenly vulnerable, yearning, dizzy from lust and the pleasures of the body. His body and Mulder's. A coupling and a joining and all in one sloppy, germ-laden kiss.

"You've got me floating, you've got me flying," he half-sings when they finally stop, "And I'm gonna float outta bed if I don't pee soon."

"Wait."

"Mulder, I *can't*."

"No, really, wait just one more minute."

"What?"

He stares into Skinner's face, his smile drawing into a concerned frown. "What's going to happen next? Today, tonight, next week?"

Skinner puts his hand back onto Mulder's face, where it fits as precisely as Mulder seems to fit into his life. "This. Exactly this. Today, tonight, next week, as long as you want." He kisses him again.

"That isn't the cold medication talking? Did you drink a bottle of Nyquil last night?"

Skinner shakes his head and kisses him again. "I'm leaving this bed only to pee. You *will* be here when I return."

Mulder's beautiful mouth relaxes into a smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be here."

* * *

_St. John's Wort: an herb that can enhance mood and diminish depression._


End file.
